


Stan the Man Opens Up!

by runboyrun



Series: Stan My Man! [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crying, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 18:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13253658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runboyrun/pseuds/runboyrun
Summary: “But if you ever want to feel good again, you can ask me, okay?”Stan would blink if he thought any of his motor functions were capable of responding. His hands, mouth, everything - all frozen. Richie - Richie wanted to have sex again? He didn’t know if what they did even counted as sex, it sure hadfeltlike it, but was that just… foreplay? There was-There was more.Richie wanted to domore.





	Stan the Man Opens Up!

**Author's Note:**

> the sequel that no one asked for
> 
> you don't need to read Stan the Man Gets Off a Good One! to read this, but it is a direct sequel!
> 
> thank you so much to punk_rock_yuppie for betaing this, you are an actual angel and i don't deserve you.

_“Now we’re gonna make you feel good.”_

Oh God, Richie was everywhere. Stan was almost vibrating out of his skin. His voice was trying to escape through his choked moans.

_“Don’t you wanna feel good?”_

God yes, so much. There wasn’t anything Stan wanted more; he could die in these arms and feel elated. But his voice wouldn’t work, his cowardice held his tongue back. What if Richie laughed?

_“Stanley. Do you wanna feel good?”_

What if Richie didn’t want him? God the pressure was so much, how could he ever find the words?

“Stanley!”

Stan’s eyes shot open, blinking away the crust between his lashes. Richie’s face hovered above his own. Stan had to go cross-eyed to see the nervous grin across Richie’s cheeks. 

“Damn, Stan. You okay?” He leaned back, giving Stan room to sit up, “You started moaning there, bad dream… _good_ dream?” Richie laughed as he handed Stan a cup of water, which Stan eagerly sipped. “You know only I’m allowed to do that to you.”

Stan choked on his mouthful, glaring as he sputtered, “Shut up, Richie.” his face was pinking at an alarming speed. _God_ that _had_ happened last night, hadn’t it?

Richie’s palms went up in surrender, “Sorry, sorry…” His smile skewed into something uncomfortably vulnerable for a moment; Stan didn’t know what to make of that. Before he could think to ask, Richie hopped off the bed.

“Gotcha breakfast, babe. Only the best from Chef Tozier.” Richie bowed, sweeping an arm to their crusted hot plate - beside which sat two dishes. One held a veggie omelette, the other bacon and scrambled eggs. Richie hopped away to hand Stanley his omelette and plopped down at the foot of Stan’s bed as he nibbled on bacon - keeping his plate firmly tucked under his chin to avoid crumbs.

The silence following was companionable, a welcome normality to their recently chaotic interactions. Stan sipped quietly on his water as Richie drank an alarming amount of sugar with coffee.

Richie finished before him, but made no move to set the plate aside. The edge of his nail made a soft click as he percussed it across the edge of the ceramic dish. He seemed skittish, the look from when Stan woke returning to his features. Stan ate the last of his omelette, and went to move from the blankets, when Richie’s hand landed on his knee. Stan and Richie both froze, Richie didn’t seem to have thought the action threw. Stan could feel the warmth of his palm through the cotton. Both boys sat like statues, unsure of how to proceed. 

Richie cleared his throat for a few beats, eyes flicking across the room as he schooled his features into a mask Stan already could see through. He just couldn’t figure out _what_ he was seeing.

Richie’s eyes finally landed on Stan, an easy smile across his face, “So… last night. It was great, I mean, super hot.” He winked and Stan could feel his neck prickle with heat as Richie continued, “I just - I really… If you want to do it again, or anything like it, I’m here. It was great, _you’re_ great, and I’m not going to push anything with you.”

Richie’s smile softened a bit, “But if you ever want to feel good again, you can ask me, okay?”

Stan would blink if he thought any of his motor functions were capable of responding. His hands, mouth, everything - all frozen. Richie - Richie wanted to have sex again? He didn’t know if what they did even counted as sex, it sure had _felt_ like it, but was that just… foreplay? There was-

There was more.

Richie wanted to do _more._

Stan’s mind was static and frantic all at once. He wanted to scream. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to sit on Richie’s dick, which, okay, _new thoughts were happening._

He wanted to tell Richie that he wanted to hold his hand. That the best part of anything that happened last night was how Richie had stroked his hair and never once laughed at him and how he felt so _safe._ He wanted -

He wanted.

But apparently he wanted too much, his tongue couldn’t verbalise any of the new emotions that were battling between his ribs. He watched in dismay as Richie’s grin decayed away into something Stan could only describe as raw.

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t reach for Richie as he mumbled out some joke that was most _certainly_ not what Stan wanted to hear. The ringing in his ears was deafening as Richie fumbled his way off the bed, still laughing, as he kept his head ducked and jammed his toes into his boots.

The door clicked shut. Stan’s voice cracked out in what may have been a whine. He stared at the knob, willing Richie to come back, to let him try again. 

The handle didn’t move. Stan sighed.

“Shit.”

\----------

A walk of shame didn’t normally entail leaving your _own_ place, but Stan couldn’t think of a better term for his trudge through the snow. The flakes must’ve begun falling in the early hours when Richie was still curled underneath him between his sheets.

He wasn’t dressed for the biting chill; he only had a hoodie on over his jeans and polo. Stan had stared at the latched door until the knot in his throat threatened to choke out from behind his teeth. Stan snatched up random clothes from his dresser, not even bothering to tuck his shirt twice - to put on a belt even, Christ - before he grabbed a jacket and rushed out of the room that was suffocating him with the stale tang of his own mistakes.

It wasn’t until he was outside, yanking the zipper to his neck, that he realized the soft, thick cotton and sherpa was branded with a garish faded AC/DC logo that couldn’t belong to anyone but Richie. If Stan slipped the cuffs over his hands and nestled further - that was just from the cold, of course. 

As Stan made his way to his friends’ dorm he was somehow in a worse mood than when he’d first seen Richie leave. The walk had done nothing but allow him to stew in his own personal cycle of self hatred and loathing until he was practically shaking.

Richie had abandonment issues a mile wide and Stan had, in Richie’s eyes, pushed him away. He knew that look that had marred his freckled skin. It was the same one from when Sally Castor had told him no one would dance with him at the Winter Formal. He had laughed it off and told her some choice jab; but when the dance finally came Stan had found Richie in his Jeep with eyes too red to just blame on the hotboxing. It was the same one from when he had told his dad he wanted to go into Radio and Communications instead of taking over the dentistry. The despondency from his father had almost made him send a notice of denial to the University.

Richie was good at hiding his insecurities in a way that Stan couldn’t hope to accomplish. His own poker face, while impenetrable in the wake of humor, would crumble at the slightest distress. The moment his clothes weren’t right or his professor complained about him turning the door handles once, twice, three times Stan’s eyes would fall and his lips would tighten to try and hide their trembling. Richie’s lazy grin had survived even the cruelest of beatings - but Stan knew better. He had hurt his Trashmouth and had no idea how to make it right.

Stan’s rapidly building anxiety was a like a twisted knot in his skull, pressing behind his eyes. His fingers itches as he picked at the small hairs along his brow, the sting of scratched skin an attempt at grounding himself when faced with Bill’s curious look upon opening his door. Bill didn’t have to see his crumbled shoulders for more than a moment before he sighed and slid a hand gently around Stan’s elbow. God, _no_ poker face at all.

Bill coaxed him into the room, settling Stan on his bed and letting him thump his head back into the wall. Bill wouldn’t push him, knew too well how Stan could become prone to tears or screaming if he’s worked himself up this much, but instead offered him a personal boxed wine. Stan couldn’t hold back his snort, Big Bill - always ready with the booze.

Not wanting to torment himself further by looking at the blinking alarm clock on Eddie’s desk; there, gone, there, gone, the flickering pattern had already started grating on Stan’s nerves, Stan unscrewed the plastic cap and took a large gulp. The wine was shit enough to leave a bitter taste but he kept on regardless. Alcohol tended to soothe Stanley’s nerves enough for his spine to unlock if only a few vertebrae.

It was early enough that by his second box, Eddie was still curled up in bed. He had a tendency to stay up late with his books - paranoia of failure was certainly something Stan could relate to - but he never slept past 10:00 AM. Sure enough, the opening riffs of Taylor Swift’s _22_ rang out through the small dorm.

Which meant that Stan was drinking boxed wine at 10:00 AM. Great.

Stan didn’t stop his steady consumption, Bill opening a beer next to him for solidarity, as Eddie slowly rose. He noticed Stan in the room, but at Bill’s shaking head his jaw clicked closed.

“D-Do y-you want one?” Bill asked, motioning between them. Stan glanced down and saw pringles and skittles between their bodies. God, Bill really was the best. 

Stan grabbed a handful of skittles, picking out the purple first, as Eddie squinted. “That depends. Why are we drinking?”

Bill opened his mouth, paused, and furrowed his brow. Stan hadn’t said a word since he’d arrived, not wanting to go into his cowardice when he could drink something resembling pinot grigio instead. He munched quietly as both boys looked at him, moving from the purple to green.

“Did something happen?” Eddie started, clearly attempting to go for tact. “You look like shit.” Not too much tact then, Stan mused as he tipped the box. Huh. Green and grigio tasted awesome. He tipped the box further, finishing off the last mouthful and shoving all the green skittles into his mouth.

He let them dissolve as he looked at the two. Eddie seemed tired, a distinctly mouth shaped bruise below his ear implying that Eddie may not have had his nose buried in books. His crusted eyes and matted hair did not look ready for whatever Stan was going to unload. He looked mean almost - his brow all furrowed up and arms crossed in his green sleepshirt. It was huge on him. He looked like an angry little lima bean.

Stan’s snort at the idea not only almost spilled the wine out of his quickly numbing face, but cause Eddie’s eyes to widen. Stan swung his face to Bill as he swallowed, avoiding the bean’s rage. Bill -

Bill looked like Richie had. Soft and vulnerable - worried about Stan. Shit. All of the morning came slamming back, Stan’s liquid attempts to try and push it back crumbled along with his face.

He could see Bill’s eyes widen as he felt his lips tremble. He wasn’t at a full blown panic yet, the wine had desensitized him just enough to avoid that, but he could feel his nose redden and eyes pool. He was making Bill upset just like he’d make Richie upset. Dammit

_Shitshitshit._

Stan’s eyes darted between the two of them, biting down into his quivering lip as he tried to find the words to explain - to put it out there, like he hadn’t been able to with Richie. Stan opened his mouth, ready to spill all of the morning, the previous night, shit even the last few weeks.

Stan instead yanked the hood of the jacket over his face. Corkscrewed curls poked out as he slouched into his cotton cocoon.

Eddie’s eyes narrowed, apparently the bean was done waiting for Stan to blossom into emotional vulnerability on his own. “Why are you crying?”

“Why is there a hickey on your neck?” Stan shot back as coolly as one could while sniffling.

Bill, surprisingly, was the one going red.

Huh.

“Fight me, Uris!” Eddie sputtered indignantly - a rant was on the rise and Stan was in the clear.

“C-c-calm down, Eddie.” Bill said, shooting a eye at the boy. Eddie’s jaw clicked shut, but his gaze softened a bit.

_Huh._

Eddie looked back to Stan as he got out of his bed, “Stan, we can’t help if you won’t talk to us and you _clearly_ came to talk - ”

“Actually, I came to drink.” Stan mumbled, a last ditch to keep things from progressing past his control.

“Oh my God, Stan, just stop deflect - ”

Stan let out a whine as he let his head drop to Bill’s shoulder, “Bill, stop the Mean Bean.”

Eddie’s eyes were like saucers, “The what?!”

“I-I-I think he m-means you, Eddie.” Bill said, Stan could feel him stifling a laugh.

Eddie sat in the space between Bill and Stan’s feet, the three boys forming a triangle on the bed. This happened a lot, whichever losers were near would huddle close to try and create a prism of security when the seven couldn’t make their circle. Stan saw Eddie and Bill’s hands reach for him - lacing their fingers tightly as they looked at Stan and Stan looked at his lap.

“Y-Y-You can t-t-t-tell us, Stan.” Bill murmured, running his thumb over the back of Stan’s hand.

“I…” Stan began, mouth shutting after nothing followed. He groaned, slouching into the hoodie further.

Eddie’s grip tightened. “Just start talking, Stan. Doesn’t matter where, just start.”

So Stan started talking, and once he started every syllable that had choked in front of Richie came out like his ribs were split open for the two boys. He told them about Bill telling Richie (which left him apologizing profusely), about Richie’s offer to Stan, how Stan freaked out and said no and then said yes in the _dumbest_ way, what had happened last night and Richie’s smile and then Stan tearing it off his face like the _coward_ he was. By the end he was almost gasping; he didn’t remember ever stopping to breathe.

He didn’t look up, didn’t want to face the judgement he deserved from two of his soulmates. Their fingers never slackened where they twisted with his own, matching his grip as he talked.

They knew Stan didn’t talk about feelings like this. He preferred to listen to theirs and make jabs and jokes at their melodramatic dilemmas. It was very clear he didn’t like to be on the other side of it, and the two boys still hadn’t come up with a response.

Well, Eddie seemed like he had - but Stan saw Bill’s grip on Eddie’s hand tighten. Stan lifted his head to look into the blue eyes, to face the blow head on.

“Y-you know Richie d-d-doesn’t think you h-hate him,” Bill started. Stan winced as Eddie scoffed, Bill gripped each of their hands - Stan’s in empathy, Eddie’s in warning, “I-It’s gonna be okay, you j-j-just gotta talk to him.”

“You have to talk to him _now._ ” Eddie said, voice solid against Bill’s careful weaving.

Stan looked between the two of them, silently begging Bill to amend Eddie’s input. He couldn’t do it now, he wasn’t ready, he’d already fucked up so much.

“Y-yeah, it needs to b-b-be now,” Bill said as kindly as Stan’s betrayal would allow him to see, “J-Just… it’s R-R-Richie, you know he c-cares about - ”

“You didn’t see his _face_ , Bill.” Stan murmured.

“Fuck’s sake,” Eddie groaned, eyes rolling. “Stan, you gotta tell him.” Eddie’s eyes took a fondness to them that let Stan know he felt the shit he was about to be dealt was coming from some angry bean-like place of love. “Richie is a dick and talks _about_ his dick and my mom more than anyone ever should but he _loves_ you.”

Stan went red at that, could feel a flush beyond the wine in his gut.

Eddie pressed on, “In his own weird, fucked up way he loves you. And he’s not gonna know that you feel like this because you rejected him.”

“I didn’t - !”

“You did, Stan. You didn’t mean to, but you did. And now he’s gonna wallow and mope and you’re drunk at ten in the goddamn morning and I’ve got a bio test in four hours and I can’t deal with this. Go tell him, be honest, suck his dick - whatever you’ve gotta do.”

And with that, Eddie let go of their hands and tumbled dramatically off the bed. Bill squeezed Stan one more time before loosening enough for Stan to pull away on his own. They were like that: Eddie a ball of quite possibly actual chaos while Bill was the strength that could navigate it. Together it was difficult to not find their reasoning sound - though Stan really didn’t want to.

As he gathered himself to trudge back to his dorm to sleep off this morning drama, he saw Eddie take off his sleep shirt. A smattering of hickies ran not just at his neck, but down his back. Stan slowly slid his eyes to Bill as he arched an eyebrow.

Bill went beet red all over again, and barely spit out, “G-g-g-go talk t-to h-h-him now.”

Eddie looked up at Bill’s desperate tone, looked down, and shrieked as he yanked on a shirt.

… _Huh._

\----------

Stan the Man finally had a plan. The words couldn’t form in his throat, even on his walk back alone with nobody but the birds to hear him - even the birds felt so judgemental this morning. Maybe they knew the flush across his nose couldn’t be blamed on the cold or wine. So Stan wouldn’t - couldn’t - talk. He hadn’t been confident in Eddie’s speech anyway, but… _location_ could play a benefit in this storm. Stan had one guaranteed interaction with Richie: their room.

Richie’s sheets were dirty. Stan did all the laundry. If, for some unknown reason, Stan maybe didn’t wash his sheets, Richie would have to either sleep on a dirty, bare mattress or - maybe - sleep with Stan? He’d already done it once and Stan had enough confidence in his eyebrows to convince Richie of doing just about anything. The proximity alone of the taller boy and Stan’s rapidly weakening control over his penis would most assuredly lead to an erection.

And while that was a humiliating thought, his boner against Richie’s thigh could say more than Stanley could ever articulate.

He’d leave the sheets alone and Richie would sleep next to him and they could spoon and Stanley’s dick could do the talking and then Richie could _touch_ it and maybe Stan could touch _his_ and they could -

Richie was in the room when Stan stumbled in, both jumped at the door swinging open at seeing the other. Richie had his arms full of rumpled navy sheets with a few choice stains Stan wasn’t going to think about. What he _was_ going to think about was that Richie didn’t only have the sheets, but their bag of quarters and a laundry pod.

“Since when do you do your laundry?” Stan asked, voice coming out harsher than he’d intended. Richie looked like he’d been slapped.

A grin quickly slid over it, “Can’t make my wife do all the work, can I?” Richie drawled, tossing the sheets into their hamper. The wrong hamper, he was going to bleed the colors, they didn’t -

“You don’t need to wash them!” Stan cracked out, voice feeling like it was booming past the ringing in his ears. Richie halted, full attention on Stan - Stan who _wasn’t talking. Just say something, anything, take the laundry, hide it, burn it, do SOMETHING, STAN._

“What,” Richie laughed, “Am I gonna sleep in Motel Uris again?” Stan’s jaw clenched; Richie’s eyebrows rose but stayed there. They both waited, Stan just had to take the step.

“I…” Stan began, paused -

And looked away.

He didn’t see Richie leave the room. But the click of the door was like a nail in the heart.

Stan, in drunken misplaced optimism, stared at the lock for the second time that morning. Hoping beyond hope that this stupid perfect mess would come running back in and just laugh and say _Just kidding, Stannio! I could never be mad at you, gimme a kiss!_

He didn’t. Stan went to bed.

\----------

Stan woke up for only a bit, the beginnings of a hangover setting in too fast for his fragile heart to take.

When he rolled to face the room his eyes landed Richie’s bed. The sheets were clean and crooked, the top corner not fully pulled down.

There was also two advil and a bottle of water on Stan’s bedside table.

He took them and only cried a little.

\----------

The living situation had quickly escalated from an unspoken misunderstanding to the fucking Cold War. For someone who never liked to stop talking Richie was remarkably good at avoiding someone he slept six feet from. Every time Stan woke up Richie was either leaving or already gone and only returned once he knew Stan’s internal clock forced him to sleep. All other hours in between he was either in the cafeteria, or library - which, no - or _anywhere_ that was not near Stan.

The worst part was that he was so nice about it. His demeanor didn’t change and he always cracked a joke whenever their paths did cross. But, there was no connection. Richie was methodically removing himself from Stan’s life until Stan felt like he was going to break.

Bill and Eddie saw it too. Stan noticed that they always seemed to see it together, which - that was a whole other development Stan couldn’t get into. Stan stared at Eddie’s most recent hickey, a smaller one just below his ear, as he aggressively ate his chicken salad sandwich. He knew they knew he was staring, but that stupid little bruise was so distracting. Stan wanted one. Stan wanted ten. Stan wanted to scream.

Stan was going to scream because the sudden tent in his khakis had no right to be at lunch. Ever since Richie broke his dick it was like his eyes had opened up to a sexual floodgate. All he wanted was Richie to leave marks twice that size, make Eddie balk, God, tear Stan’s skin apart -

“Jesus Christ, Stanley!” Eddie snapped, breaking the haze from Stan’s eyes. “Either talk to him or grab your dick but you can’t avoid _both."_

The jab was obviously meant to put him in his place. But the pool of heat in his stomach didn’t cease. Why would he grab his dick if _Richie_ could instead? No, no, stop that. Nope. Not happening. Stan was going to eat his chicken salad and go to his shittiest class and _not_ be hard for it.

He kept his head low through class with a half chub maintaining his full attention. This would not, _could_ not, be his life. He was stronger than this, stronger than Richie’s big hands that held his wrist so easily - _No._

But thoughts of Richie persisted through any mental distractions Stan tried. Torah readings? Richie’s front pressed along his back as he bent over his desk. Laundry? Stan’s sweat soaked clothes as Richie peeled them off him. Cleaning? Well there’s another fucking counter Stan’s pinned on, rocking back into Richie...  

Even breathing deeply through his nose, which is exactly what he’d do with his mouth full - Jesus _FUCK._

When the hour ended Stan almost bolted for the door, until he noticed just how obvious his situation had become. The khakis were too tight and his sweater wasn’t long enough to hide it. So he waited, pretending to take longer than usual to fill his backpack, and held his bag awkwardly in front of him as he valiantly attempted not to walk with his legs too wide.

Stan almost made it too. Head down, quick steps - he was so close to freedom. But, the boy collided with a tall broad chest and his bag hit into a wiry thigh which hit his _dick_ and Stan was going to _die._ He almost bit through his lip as he looked up to apologize, and froze.

Because of course he had to run into Richie. They had back-to-back classes. Stan should’ve run like he’d planned because now his field of vision was nothing but the constellation of freckles across Richie’s nose. Richie who didn’t step back, instead keeping their hips flush through his Jansport and putting hands on Stan’s shoulders with thumbs brushing against his fluttering pulse because even their stalemate couldn’t win against his concern for Stan.

“Stan, are you okay?” Richie asked, eyes darting between his own. This was the most eye contact they’d had in four days, six hours, and roughly twelve minutes - Stan was only desperately counting - and Stan had to have a dick that was pointing at Richie like a beacon. Like a compass that spotted the fucker than owned it.

“Stan…?” Richie asked, quieter, which made his voice drop which was just - God, was he doing this on purpose? Stan’s jaw dropped, tongue poking out to wet his very dry lips, and then clenching his jaw on a muffled blend of a groan and shriek.

If he didn’t get away from Richie in the next seven seconds Stan was sure he was going to either combust or cum. It was a toss up at this point, but he wouldn’t risk finding out in front of the boy.

So Stan did what he did best - he ran. He ran with a full erection and a backpack jammed against it all the way to his dorm. The door wasn’t even fully closed before his fingers were looped around his dick. He shuddered at the touch, so ready to finally feel relief, except -

The soft quick strokes, as badly as he’d craved them, gave little to no reprieve. He didn’t feel that pool in him soothing or growing like it had done that night, but sitting stagnant - unyielding in malcontent.

He tightened his grip, stroked slower, faster, harder - anything to soothe the itch. But Stan’s uncertain fingers and frustratingly dwindling confidence left him feeling nothing short of lackluster.

This was how he’d always imagined it being - dirty and unappealing. He wanted that feeling again: inhibition and emotion and crash of waves through his gut.  

But his inexperience was leaving him shaking for all the wrong reasons. He felt like a sweat was going to break across his brow - Stan hadn’t even tried to touch his dick since, since -

Richie.

And with that name back at the front of his mind, Stan’s hips jerked.

“F-fuck…” A startled moan punched from behind his teeth. Okay, _okayokayokay,_ better. Stan’s grip tightened again and his hips responded beyond anything he could hope to control.

He could feel the ache again - it was faint, but there. He couldn’t feel it rushing through him like last time, but the idea of Richie alone was making his legs quake.

He kept up his offbeat staccato of thrusting and jerking until his knees caved enough for him to fall back. Except his back hit his door. Jesus, it wasn’t even _locked._

Stan pulled away from the fog in his head and pulled his hand off his dick long enough to twist the latch and stumble into his bed, yanking off his sweater and pants as he went.

He still folded them, it was the middle of the day and he knew he’d get a comment from Eddie if he showed up to dinner in a different outfit, and laid back.

He could see his dick twitch with his breathing, heavy but not heaving quite yet. Something was still off; Stan had been beyond a mess last time. Richie had had to hold him, keep him still, _restrain_ him…

Stan suddenly had a vivid image of the cheesy pink cuffs Richie got on his 18th birthday from Bill that he knew were in the third drawer of his dresser. The light _click_ they’d made at the cheap metal closed around his wrist. Richie had cuffed his arms together as a ‘test subject’ that night - Stan hadn’t found it funny.

But, now - what would they feel like now? The cold bite of the metal heating against his flushed skin as he twisted and jerked. He’d moved so much before that Richie had pinned his legs too; the cuffs wouldn’t be enough.

Richie was creative though. He would tie Stan’s legs up, bind them in something - rope, biting and smooth - to keep them spread and open. Keep Stan vulnerable.

Fuck, he’d wanted to be good that night, he’d tried so hard. But Richie had had to hold him down - what if he didn’t need to? What if Stan was already helpless, ready, vulnerable?

Stan could feel precum start to bubble in his fist, hips springing off the bed as his thoughts developed into a clear image -  a video behind his eyes.

Stan would be splayed out for Richie, flushed and writhing with nowhere to go. Richie shushing every cry that spilled out of him - every plea for release, for something, _anything._

But he’d have to take it, take what was given and nothing else. Richie would shush and smile as he took Stan apart and Stan would let him. God, he’d let Richie wreck him.

Richie would put him back together, take him apart with hands Stan couldn’t predict and soothe his shakes until he was whole. Stan would just - _take_ it.

He’d be so good for him, no choice but to be, no thoughts of his own failures or worries bubbling up, kept tight beneath the ropes corded across his pale flushed thighs. His cries stifled by Richie’s hand across his mouth - he could see it, see the lazy grin as Richie watched Stan come undone just for him.

His hips sped up; he wasn’t even moving his fist anymore, pelvis smacking into the edge of his palm. It felt - it felt -

Something was missing, he needed -

_You just need a push._

His free hand was moving under him before his mind finished replaying the words. The pressure of his thumb against his hole tore a gasp from him. Oh God, oh fuck -

His feet planted on the bed, he must’ve looked lewd, sweet little Stanley: spread like a slut. Tongue giving up on wetting his lips as he let it sit out past the tips of his teeth, curls clinging to the sweat on his skin. Hips jumping so erratically between his grip and his thumb, running away from and flying into the sensitivity that Richie had loved so much.

On a particularly rough shove, the tip of Stan’s thumb slipped in and breached the slightest bit past his fluttering muscle.

His body froze, locking in on itself at the dueling overwhelming sensations, both threatening to tear him in half. God, Richie -

_Just have to relax and be good for me._

“ _Richie!_ "

Stan’s moan was closer to a shout as he came, all his muscles seizing, nerves frying, and ultimately releasing at once. He sank into the bed, thighs twitching as he tried to heave in air.

He’d done it. He’d cum on his own.

But only with Richie in his ear.

\----------

Dinner that night was rough, Stan had been sure to shower but felt that the Losers could see the shame coming off him in waves. Eddie certainly looked it, nose all scrunched up as he openly texted Bill about some plan of attack Stan would not appreciate. Every buzz of their phones set Stan even more on edge.

Richie was at the table too. Granted he was seated at the farthest corner - but he was still there. No level of dispute kept the seven from meeting when they could. It usually ended up solving the problems, all the Losers together to work it out.

Stan was in no mood to try and work this out. Just the idea of Mike or, God forbid, _Beverly_ hearing about Stan’s deviance would just give him an aneurysm. So Stan ate his fries and talked to Ben because he had no grasp on the issue and wouldn’t pin it to Stan.

  
“C’mon Mike, everyone knows that! Right, Stan?” Richie’s voice rang across the table a brightness in his eyes that Stan hadn’t seen in days. Or maybe he’d missed it from avoiding looking at them - either way he was looking now. He didn’t know what Richie had said, he hadn’t been following a word since he’d sat down.

“I, uh… sure?” Stan stammered out, unable to look away from Richie’s slowly dimming eyes. Back to the closed off soul Stan had seen in their room when he’d fucked up. The grin didn’t falter, didn’t so much as twitch, Richie was too good at this to let that slip. But it didn’t reach his eyes anymore.

“Yeah, see? He gets it.” Richie chuckled, turning his entire body to Mike - cutting any connection that Stan still had.

A tension settled like a smog over the table, suffocating Stan in a vice grip. He turned away from Richie, from Bill and Eddie flanking him, from all of it. He’d look straight ahead and not let his mind wander beyond the slightly cold fries he didn’t have an appetite for.

The issue with his dead ahead tactic was that Stan’s lowered gaze landed right on the slightly peaking breasts of Miss Marsh. Quickly darting his eyes up to keep the meal from getting any worse, however, left him with the more intimidating fate of Miss Marsh’s eyes.

Beverly was, arguably, the smartest of them all. Not necessarily in books or language or anything that could be tested - but in their souls. She was a glue between them; she understood their woes before they even knew. Richie was their heart, that was undeniable, but Bev was their home.

She didn’t have a look of judgment or even pity, but of understanding. She knew the look that must’ve been smeared across Stan’s dangerously close to quivering face. The shame in his feelings, the disgust with himself, the fear of his own body.

He’d witnessed her own metamorphosis and watched her become a woman who talked shit and took no prisoners. Who didn’t deny herself what she wanted. Stan wished he was strong like that. Instead, he was trapped like a fly in her web. He was begging her for help he didn’t know if he deserved.

She furrowed her brow for a moment, reading his silent plea, and then smiled in a way that reminded him of his mother. A kind nurturing look that would take care of a sick heart.

“Hey, let’s get drunk tonight.” Bev’s voice rang clear across the huddle, everyone pausing instantaneously to hear the proposition.

Stan’s eyes widened; that was _not_ what he’d had in mind. He’d almost rather her punch him in the face. But, at her soft look, he didn’t even open his mouth to object, just gaped at her power over them all.

Mike smiled, looking to Richie. “Yeah, that’d be great. It’s been awhile.”

Richie returned Mike’s grin immediately - it was too bright and infectious not to, but as the others agreed like dominoes Stan could see Richie trying to find a way out.

“Well, darling, I’d love to - ”

“So you will.” Beverly said simply. Her eyes had not left Stan’s even as she addressed Richie. “We all need a night, midterms were last week and we never bothered to celebrate.” She winked at Stan, and he flushed despite himself. “A night to unwind, maybe?”

Her eyes finally slid to Richie’s after a long moment, and Stan watched his jaw work, trying to argue without words. Beverly did not yield; she may not have known the details but she knew her boys were suffering. And God help whoever kept her from fixing it.

The heart and the home battled for what felt to Stan like milenia, neither blinking or breathing for all Stan could tell. Until, finally, with a wry grin that almost looked fractured, Richie smiled.

“Sure thing, Miss Marsh.”

\----------

A drink was in Stan’s hand before he even had time to pull his jacket off. The bite of the cold was still stinging his nose as Beverly jammed a mug into his grip.

Ben and Richie were on a booze run. Ben had grown into his face in a way that put them all to shame - even at 19 he was hardly carded.

Despite the solid, and currently oblivious, comfort Mike brought - Stan felt horrifically outnumbered. They’d never hurt him, he knew that, but they could push him and pushing him recently led to ejaculation and self hatred. Stan didn’t want a push, except maybe off a cliff.

The mug in his hand, despite its thick ceramic mold, felt suspiciously empty. He peaked in and, instead of his go to wine, a clearly liquid sloshed along the bottom, only filling half an inch of the cup.

It was, without a doubt, vodka. Vodka made Stan a messy drunk, known for stripping, clinging, and oversharing. None of those boded well for Stan.

But, as he tried to set the mug down, maybe dump the liquor in a house plant that could magically appear, a blue painted nail tapped against the rim. He looked up helplessly at Beverly, but her expression was nothing but mirth.

“I don’t know what’s going on, not yet,” She added at Stan’s soft scoff. “But Richie loves you and I’m not gonna watch my boys fight.”

She tucked her finger under the cup, tipping it towards him. “Drink up, sweetie.”

Stan hesitated for only a moment. Bill and Eddie were watching him with tense looks, Mike with solidarity for a situation that was most assuredly going to get spilled by Bill after two drinks. They waited, Beverly’s finger didn’t press harder, the last choice was in his corner.

Well, fuck it. Why not? If Stan was gonna make ass out himself then he might as well do it with a bang. Stan swung the mug back, coughing at the artificial clementine flavor - _Jesus, Eddie_ \- and laughed at Bill’s responding roar as he downed his own, the other Losers cheering and following suit.

By the time Richie and Ben returned, the rest of the Losers were coming up on shot number four, having just knocked back number three. Beverly was wasting no time in refilling all their cups, but she always came to Stan first, always touched her own glass to his with a conspiratorial smile.

Stan was feeling… _loose._ Where wine could make him wallow in his own dramas, vodka - when surrounded by friends - made him feel elated, free of his own brain in a way that he desperately craved.

He had an arm around Mike, landing skewed around his waist, as he babbled on about how he missed the farm. Stan used to help out; the repetitive work did wonders for his focus, all clear and concise in a schedule - the Hanlon farm was a lighthouse in Stan’s darker points of high school. Mike had been a friend he always knew he needed, clicking right into place within the Seven.

Stan had decided that three shots in was the best time to explain this - but judging by the adoring laugh Mike huffed out after his fourth exclamation of the wonders of feeding the baby chicks, Stan wasn’t being as concise as he’d hoped.

“Why are you laughing at me?” Stan grumbled, a small smile still in place as he rested his temple on Mike’s shoulder.

Mike slung an arm around Stan and pulled him in closer, “Not laughing at you, bud. Never at you.” Mike always clarified, he was the best. A second laugh meant Stan must’ve told him so.

“Yeah, you did tell me so.” Mike beamed, ruffling the curls on his head. “You’re the best, Stan. You know that?”

Stan snorted, rubbing his nose into the muscled arm in lieu of a response.

“I’m serious,” Mike murmured, soft so only Stan would hear, “You tie us together, keep us in check. Best of the bunch.” Stan felt him pull the cowlicked curl at his crown, watching it spring back as he allowed Stan to cling.

“I’m not the only one that thinks so,” Mike continued, and Stan could _hear_ the grin on his face as his voice dropped further - like it was a secret. “Your favorite Trashmouth hasn’t looked away since he got here.”

Stan didn’t miss the _your_ instead of _our._ Like Richie could ever belong to him alone; like Stan could ever deserve that.

Richie was staring, mug frozen halfway to his lips. He looked still enough to be a photograph. He blinked when he caught their stares, and hastily took a sip, but didn’t look away.

A hum rumbled in Stan’s throat, but it felt a little more like a whine. How dare Richie be sitting there, right across from him, making eyes with his dumb perfect face. Making his magnified eyes even wider as he licks his lips and fuck, why can’t he just lick Stan instead?

Mike sputters around his drink and looks wide eyed at Stan. Stan looked back, furrowing his brow at Mike’s sudden change in demeanor.

They stared at each other for a long moment, Stan felt as if he shouldn’t blink. Mike’s eyes slowly squinting as he worked through whatever was on his mind. A smirk worked across his cheeks, but there was no trace of menace in it. Mike was never menacing, and that almost made him _more_ dangerous - every tactic was done with unadulterated genuine love.

A muscle corded arm slipped under Stan’s thighs and hefted him up as he yelped. Mike could throw Stan across the room if he wanted, but instead held him one-armed as Stan clung to him - like a toddler on his hip.

Stan didn’t weigh enough to stop Mike from reaching his destination, and while Stan was disgruntled at being lifted, by the time his swimming vision caught up he was eye level with a confused Richie.

“I come bearing gifts,” Mike laughed to Richie, twisting Stan effortlessly in his grip to land on the taller boys waiting lap. Richie was sitting near the edge of the bed and Stan’s arms quickly found their way around his waist for balance, “Take care of him, please.” Mike murmured with something deeper in his eyes that Stan couldn’t decipher.

“Wh - _Mike!_ ” Richie squawked even as his free arm was already finding its way around Stan’s hips to keep him seated. Even when he wouldn’t look at him, he was unable to allow any harm. Mike was sturdy, practically an ox, but _no one was safer than Richie._

Richie’s head turned sharply to Stan, eyebrows going dangerously close to his hairline. The long fingers splayed across his hips clenched into the bone; the grip was just like that night, so firm and unyielding, protective.

Stan felt like he should be concerned by how big Richie’s eyes were getting. Maybe a drink would help. A drink sounded great, “Oh, no, nuh uh Mister Uris,” Richie murmured, bringing Stan deeper into his lap. “We gotta have a talk.”

Stan snorted, “You talk enough for both of us.” And talking wasn’t something Stan needed any of with this disaster. He reached for Richie’s cup, booze was well within reach and a full mouth meant no talking.

But, Stan’s spacial awareness was skewed beyond his hazy comprehension. He had thought a quick arm darting for the mug could snag it from Richie, but instead his hand shot out and gripped Richie’s wrist. The sudden contact startled the taller boy, making him drop his mug directly onto Stan’s shirt. The slow-rising tension, like the incline on a particularly rickety roller coaster, came to a freezing halt.

Stan, no matter how drunk he got, could not handle a mess.

The panic didn’t set in immediately, but he could feel the start of it. Creeping in through the haze of his euphoric numbness, the itch to have order was being soiled by the spreading stain across his blue checked shirt. The press was wrinkling under the damage and Stan could feel the keen crawling in his throat as his hands left Richie’s waist to try and wipe the filth away.

His hands couldn’t continue their uncoordinated attempt at cleaning before he was moving once more. The action was rougher this time though, more jostling. Richie didn’t have the upper body strength of Mike by a long shot.

“Shit, shhh, Stan, I’m sorry,” Richie had Stan in his lap, their chests facing as he rapidly undid the buttons with a finesse no drunk could achieve. “S’all good, we’re good, you’re good, don’t worry.” The shirt was yanked off his shoulders, wadded up and tossed out of sight.

Stan could still feel the tears pooling in his eyes. He’s reacting like he did as a child with this depressant in his blood and knew the oncoming cold would only make matters worse. But a chill didn’t settle in his bones - a new shirt was yanked on him in record time.

He looked down to see Richie’s green flannel, too big in the shoulders and everywhere else, being carefully buttoned to the top. While Richie had almost torn the stained shirt away, he was methodical about the impromptu redress. He was taking his time and making sure that each button lay flat across the plaid stitching.

Stan swam in the shirt, his fingertips barely poking out beneath the cuffs. The bottom of the shirt pooled across his thighs, the shoulders hung wide, the collar sagged loose despite being fully buttoned. He fiddled with the cuff buttons, undoing and redoing the one on his left hand until he felt like he could breathe again.

Richie’s hands had moved from the material, one brushing the hair into the part he always tried to control while the other stroked along his right eyebrow. The hairs were sparse in the peak, Stan would pick and scratch at them when the itch got bad, but Richie’s thumb soothed along the skin in place of the self inflicted abuse. Stan leaned into the touch, allowing himself to be comforted.

The motion didn’t stop after Stan’s breathing was steady, and it didn’t stop after his spine unlocked. Stan sat in Richie’s lap, legs splayed across his hips, and didn’t have a care in the world.

He’d been like this before, sprawled out across Richie. Though, he’d been taking clothes off of him instead. Stan snorted, but also felt so warm. He’d felt safe that night. It had been so scary and new and not for a moment, a single moment, had he felt like he’d _had_ to be there. Only that he _wanted_ to be there.

Richie was the most annoying loudmouth Stan had ever met; he took up so much space with this - this light that had blinded Stan for so long. He felt as if he could never approach it, that if he tried he’d be burned alive. But instead, the light approached him and this stupid, loud ball of light made Stan glow instead of burn. Richie’s shine wasn’t a careless match lighting Stan up like a forest fire. No, Richie’s shine bounced off Stan like a reflection, warm and constant but never too hot, too much. He was like the moon: Stan the Moon Man.

And the moon had gotten a handjob from the sun, which made Stan hide his face in Richie’s hand to keep from wheezing. What an image. But he had, and he’d loved it and maybe he loved Richie a little. He wanted to hold his dick and hold his hand and not go dutch to the movies and maybe kiss because they hadn’t done that once that night. 

Maybe they could kiss while they fucked, or while they watched a movie. Or both. Stan wasn’t picky.

He felt a tap to his cheek and looked up; he must’ve spaced for awhile because Richie looked awfully worried. Big eyes even bigger and lip between his teeth. It was cute, Richie was so cute.

“O-Okay, Stan my Man.” His Man, Stan liked that. “Yep, that’s great, let’s get you to bed, huh?”

“Mm’kay…” Stan mumbled, eyes sliding shut, and held his arms out in front of him like an expectant toddler.

Richie chuckled, “Jesus, Stanley,” and Stan felt them wiggle to the edge of the bed. Richie slipped off first, but Stan didn’t bother to open his eyes. He wasn’t worried, not really about anything for once, and sure enough, he felt Richie’s back press into his front.

Stan’s arms threaded around Richie’s neck and he hooked his ankles around his waist. Richie’s palms gripped the backs of Stan’s thighs as he hefted them up.

Stan dropped his face into the baby curls along the nape of Richie’s neck as Mike spoke.

“You got him?”

“Yep, just gonna put him to bed, don’t wait up.”

Stan didn’t want to sleep. If he slept than Richie wouldn’t be holding him anymore, he’d go to his stupid made bed with the messed up corner instead of holding Stan like he was now.

“You said we needed to talk.” Stan mumbled into his hair, mouthing lightly at the curls that poked his lips.

“Ohhh, babe, we’ve talked enough,” What did that mean? “In fact, probably more than you meant, but we’re gonna pick this up in the morning.”

“I haven’t talked,” Stan giggled. “Not a peep.”

“You’re gonna have a fit when you realize how inaccurate that is.”

“Your shirt is warm.”

“I’m glad, babe,” Stan loved when Richie called him babe; baby was better though. “Christ, Stanley.”

“Moses, more like.” Stan tittered, pushing Richie’s glasses back up the bridge of his nose when he felt him try to tilt them back with his neck, unwilling to let go of Stan.

“Yep, Stan my Man, little Jew with a plan.” 

“I’m not little,” Stan’s straying hand grazed Richie’s lower lip, brushing his nail against the chapped edges, “You’re just huge.”

“The entendres here are truly legendary.”

Stan snorted, digging his nose further into Richie’s curls, God, Richie was so funny.

“Wow, you really are wasted.”

By the time Richie kicked their door open Stan was half asleep. This would be when he’d let go, crawl into bed, and sleep until noon. But, Stan didn’t want to let go, and whined when Richie tried. Richie set the back of his knees against Stan’s bed, and leaned back.

“C’mon babe, dismount.” The warm grip on Stan’s thighs let go, and he felt gravity try to pull him down to his mattress.

“Noo _oo,_ ” Stan moaned, locking his ankles tighter around Richie’s middle and linking his fingers securely around Richie’s neck.

Stan’s strength wasn’t formidable on the best of days; he knew he’d lose this fight. He was going to end up his bed, but he didn’t have to go alone.

With a swinging heave, Stan leaned into Richie and then threw himself back, firmly clinging the entire way down. Richie squawked as his knees knocked out, landing with an _oof_ on top of Stan.

Richie twisted, trying to sit up, but Stan held firm. Richie was only able to turn in his grip and froze when he was fully on his front. Richie kneeled between Stan’s legs. His arms bracketed Stan’s tousled curls, their faces a breath apart. 

Richie seemed almost as overwhelmed as Stan; their out of sync heartbeats were slamming against their pressed ribs. Stan watched as Richie’s eyes darted to his tongue poking out to wet his lips.

Well, as if Stan could ignore _that._

His aim was off, and his mouth landed against the edge of Richie’s Cupid bow instead of his lips. He tried to adjust, to get that kiss he wanted so bad, but Richie’s hand tangled in his hair as he leaned up and away.

“Oh, no, babe - ” something between a groan and a keen left Stan’s throat as he tried to follow him. Richie’s hand tugged, pulling Stan’s head back to his pillow. Stan choked on a moan as Richie continued, “You’re drunk, _Stan_ , look at me.” Stan’s eyes locked to his without hesitation. “I’m not doing anything while you’re drunk.”

Stan keened again. He fought against the grip in his curls, partially to try and get his kiss and maybe to feel that tug one more time - or several times, that would be good too.

He was rewarded with the grip tightening and Richie’s other hand sliding to sit under his jaw, the soft grip keeping him still. Stan could feel himself hardening against Richie’s hip; if Richie felt it he didn’t say.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. Eyes on me, Stanley,” Stan’s eyes opened, he hadn’t realized they’d shut at all. “You’re gonna sleep, nuh uh - hush. You’re gonna sleep.”

“But -”

“No buts, baby,” The hand in his curls began to card through them. Richie didn’t seem to notice he was doing it, “We’re gonna have a nice long talk in the morning, but until then you can sleep this off.”

Stan’s mouth opened again, to argue that if they _slept_ than they couldn’t do all the other things that came with pulling Stan’s hair.

The hand on his neck slid to his jaw, a thumb resting against his lips, “Can you do that for me? Can you listen for me?”

Stan’s eyes didn’t stray from Richie’s as he nipped slightly on the thumb. “I can be good.”

Richie didn’t miss a beat, “Good, baby, that’s good.” He started to lean away once more. “Just sleep for me.”

Stan’s grip tightened. “You sleep here too.”

“Stan, I don’t - ”

“Your sheet is crooked.”

Richie paused, then quietly, amusement lacing his tone, asked, “... My what?”

Stan cleared his throat and put on his most authoritative voice. “Your sheet is crooked. You did the laundry but you did it _wrong_ so now you have to sleep here instead of there,” He glared up at Richie’s slowly forming grin, “This is serious, Tozier. You have to sleep here it’s for safety.”

Richie laughed lightly but Stan’s argument must’ve been as solid as it sounded in his head because Richie laid back down, turning them both onto their sides.

“Can’t argue with that logic, I guess. You wouldn’t let me if I tried.” Stan released his legs from Richie at the tap to his knees, and fiddled with Richie’s curls as the taller boy slowly unlaced his keds.

Only after Richie toed off his own shoes and pulled the quilt above them did he finally settle. Stan slid closer, pulling Richie’s glasses carefully off and setting them onto the bedside table.

A freckle under Richie’s eye caught Stan’s attention. He knew all the freckles - where did that one come from? He was practically under Richie’s chin and the angle allowed for seeing fresh skin normally hidden by the metal edge of glasses.

Stan’s hand reached out before he could think better, though he wouldn’t think better even if he had the opportunity, and ran the tip of his middle finger across the tinted skin. Richie didn’t flinch away, just stared down at him.

“You hid it from me.” Stan grumbled, feeling his lip twist into a pout.

“I’m sorry, hid what?”

“This freckle, I’ve never seen it.”

“I’ve got a lot of ‘em, Stanley.”

“Yeah but,” Stan paused for a moment, working through his thoughts.

“But what?”

_But you shouldn’t keep things from me_

_But I want to know everything about you_

_But I think I might love you a little more than I thought_

Stan was asleep before he could decide.

—————

Stan came to with a throb in his temples and breath on his neck. He groaned softly, too comfortable to try and lift his arms from where they were tucked to his chest or his legs that were tangled with -

Stan’s eyes shot open. He was on top of Richie, completely spread out across the taller boy. His lashes brushed Richie’s curls as he blinked, Richie’s lips brushing his jawline as he breathed steady and deep. Stan felt his neck prickle; he didn’t know how he got here, but fuck if he could keep from getting hard for another moment with their hips flush.

Stan started to slowly sit up, getting his arms on either side of the taller boy’s head to slip off of Richie. He needed the space if he was ever going to piece together what even happened. The only reason he wasn’t panicking was that his clothes were still on. He was in Richie’s shirt which - okay, there was definitely a story there -  but there was no indication anything _mortifying_ had occurred. The night before was barely bits in his mind; he knew he’d talked to Mike for awhile and then Richie… what had Richie done? What had _Stan_ done?

He knew he didn’t ever stay blacked out for long, memories never failing to come and humiliate him in the judgemental light of day. Stan worked his way off of the bed, dangling over Richie precariously as he tried to keep from making too much noise, and padded softly in his socked feet to their bathroom.

It wasn’t until he saw his reflection swimming in Richie’s flannel that he let out a whine. Christ, Uris. Tousled hair, cheeks pink from being pressed into Richie’s shoulder, bundled in a blanket of a shirt. Stanley looked - Stanley looked exactly how he’d dreamed he could every morning.

Flanneled hands scrubbed as his cheeks, only making them a deeper flush from the friction instead of dispelling the thoughts like he’d intended. He stared a moment longer, took a breath, and tried to take another that would hopefully be more successful.

He brushed his teeth slowly, feeling the bristles glide across his gums as he tried to gather his thoughts. He’d talked to Richie, but what he said wasn’t clear. Stan had once had an entire argument with Eddie without realizing it, not aware that his opinion on how DC was garbage wasn’t just in his head until Eddie was yelling about how

_“The Flash was a pivotal character in comic development - “_

_“Huh, a tall, skinny, redhead with blue eyes that gets Eddie hard, who else does that sound like?”_

_“Ohmygod.”_

He hadn’t realized he’d been heard until Richie had spit his drink.

Stan spit out the toothpaste, rinsing his mouth as he tried to piece together what had slipped. It was going to be okay though, he’d just change and slip out and maybe go talk to Bill again -

Richie was up and moving; he didn’t seem rushed or even surprised to see Stan walk back into the room. He was dressed, same clothes as the night before, but lacing his shoes and reaching for his jacket. He smiled when he looked at Stan.

There was a calm about him that put Stan on edge, not because it was threatening - it was _knowing_.

“Here,” Richie grasped Stan’s hand as he passed and placed two advil into it. “I’m gonna go get us some coffee.”

Stan let out a breath. Coffee was good, coffee was safe, coffee didn’t ever lead to dick sucking.

“Yeah, great, I’ve got some cash on my desk,”

“Why don’t you shower and figure out what you wanna say?” Richie said, turning back to face him fully as he pulled on his jacket. “Cause when I get back we’re talking about last night.”

Stan froze. Richie’s eyes didn’t stray from him, watching every twitch of Stan’s jaw as he tried to come up with an excuse out of this. Instead, he closed the gap between them, moving a few of Stan’s curls off his face as he kept eye contact. Stan was helpless to look away.

“This,” Richie said, tapping his finger against Stan’s cheek, “Isn’t gonna fly. You can’t freeze up on me, Stanley. Not anymore, okay?”

He didn’t wait for a response, must’ve known he wouldn’t get one, and walked to the door. Stan stared at it as it shut, feeling lost in his own room.

He stood for a while longer, and then numbly grabbed some clothes and went to the bathroom.

It wasn’t until he was under the hot spray that the last three minutes caught up to him and Stan almost clawed his scalp off while he lathered shampoo.

Okay.

 _Okayokayokay_.

It didn’t matter what he’d said now, because clearly he’d said _enough to ruin his fucking life_. Richie, fuck what was he going to do? Stan just, Stan just had to leave the fucking country is what he had to do.

He’d dumped emotions into this - this - losers with benefits offering and now Richie knew and had to _talk to him_ and people only said that when they broke up with people but they weren’t even _dating and he was getting dumped_.

The word rejection came to his mind once he’d started to towel off. He was getting rejected. That’s what was going to happen and Stan would throw himself out their fifth story window before he cried over it.

He pulled on his briefs and shorts with more aggression than the garments called for. He held his shirt in his hands - a standard polo, nothing special - and hesitated.

Fuck.

Stan refolded the material carefully and picked up the rumpled flannel that had been discarded on the floor. He buttoned it methodically, just as Richie had done for him the night before, and looked at it.

If he was going to lose Richie he was going to keep his fucking shirt.

Stan walked back into the room to Richie sitting on his bed, holding his coffee with Stan’s resting on the bedside table. He seemed ready, if only a little jittery.

But Stan wasn’t ready. Because Richie was sitting on his own bed, he didn’t want to be on Stan’s bed - didn’t want to be anywhere near it - because he was about to reject him and this was happening and Stan -

Burst into tears.

Richie’s hand froze with his cup almost to his lips, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry!” Stan blurted, and with the dam broken the words flooded.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to - to, fuck all this up. I just, you’re just, you’re _you_ and it was stupid of me and I’m sorry I didn’t mean to involve feelings,” he was gasping between words, trying to get enough air to get his plea out before he lost his nerve all over again. “I just, I can’t stop thinking about you and I can’t cum without you and all I want is for you to fuck me and hold my hand and I can’t have both and I’m _sorry_.”

The only credit that Stan could give himself was that he did not, for a single moment, look away from Richie. He faced the defeat with his head high and tears in his eyes.

Richie lowered his coffee slowly, setting it onto the desk besides Stan’s own, and finally blinked.

“... Okay, two things.”

Stan whistled in air through trembling lips, this was it, here it comes.

“First, c’mere,” Richie’s arms reached out, palms up, and Stan shuffled towards him like a man sentenced to the gallows. Even now, he couldn’t imagine doing anything but following Richie.

He squeaked through his clogged throat when the arms came in range of his waist and hoisted him into Richie’s lap. They quickly settled around him, one on his thighs and the other at his waist.

Stan didn’t grip him back, didn’t dare, but he sunk against him. The anxiety in his soul like a sludge - weighing him down into the taller boy beneath him.

“Second, what the _fuck_ ,” Richie pressed his face into Stan’s, “Are you even talking about?" 

“I -”

“No, no.” Richie cut in. “I said for you to figure out what you wanted to say, but _Jesus_ I didn’t think it was gonna be that.”

Richie’s breath ghosted across Stan’s cheek, allowing him the comfort and warmth he desperately needed in this fragile state. Stan felt like splintered porcelain in his arms - as if one word could crack him clean in two. Richie didn’t force eye contact; he just let Stan burrow and hide and listen.

“You could never fuck anything up between us. You could probably murder someone in front of me and I’d be like, ‘Okay, sure dude’,” Stan laughed wetly into Richie’s neck, and his arms tightened. “I’m serious. I’ve never been more serious in my life, you can’t see it but my brow is _furrowed_.”

Richie turned his head, twisting just enough to press his lips to the patch in Stan’s eyebrow, “... When you say feelings...” Stan flinched in his grip, making Richie’s mouth press tighter, till the words had to slip through the seam between them. “Stan, please,” He begged, “Don’t shut me out.”

Stan felt Richie’s arm at his waist loosen its grip. This was it, this was the rejection. This was the rejection that was still so full of love because Richie wasn’t capable of hurting Stan yet here he was about to destroy him.

It didn’t register that Richie was now holding his hand until Stan felt the fingers squeeze between his own fist-clenched ones.

“Stanley.” He said. “I’m gonna need you to stop upsetting yourself and just listen for two minutes. Please.”

Stan tightened his fingers laced with Richie’s. “Okay.”

A noise came out of Richie, a cut off start to - to something. Hopefully to anything that could make sense of this mess that Stan was.

He took a breath and started again, “I once stole seven coffees at a Starbucks because it was my turn to provide for the study group,” he swallowed, “I just nabbed ‘em, couldn’t be bothered. Turns out Ben’s allergic to nutmeg - we all learned a _lot_ about anaphylactic shock that day.”

Stan… Stan didn’t know where the fuck this was going.

“But I just spent $5.35 on a caramel macchiato for you,” Richie laughed. “I don’t even know what a caramel macchiato _is_ but I bought it anyway because I know it’s the only way you’ll drink coffee. Just like I know you hate when people sing Happy Birthday to you, and that you cry whenever we watch _It’s A Wonderful Life_ , and that you’re still sure a phoenix could exist somewhere because all you’ve ever wanted was to hold one, and I know I’d buy a fucking _thousand_ of those overpriced cups of foam if you wanted me to.”

Richie pulled Stan higher on his lap as Stan untucked from his neck. Richie’s eyes looked so soft behind his glasses, no humor in his eyes despite his jokes - he was spilling his soul, awaiting his sentence. Stan could relate, _did_ relate, but the feeling was starting to fade. This time, when Richie opened his mouth, Stan wasn’t entirely consumed with fear.

“You’re Stan my Man and I wanna hold your hand.”

Stan just… giggled, just - tried to make sense of it. Of any of it. The tittering laugh grew into something deep and loud. He felt almost manic. Was he still drunk? Was he dreaming? Did he die in shower - was he _dead_?

“What did I say about upsetting yourself?” Richie said.

“Not to.” Stan answered immediately, a smile splitting across his ruddy cheeks.

“Good, baby, that’s good.” Richie replied, and _that_ sounded familiar, Christ.

Stan started to squirm, dislodging Richie’s grip, twisting so a knee was on either side of Richie. Chest to chest, noses brushing, one hands’ fingers still linked.

Exactly where Stan wanted to be.

“I… I - ”

“Y’know you tried to kiss me last night?”

Stan’s mouth dropped as his neck flamed, “Oh my God, I didn - ”

“Oh, you certainly tried,” Richie laughed. “Didn’t succeed. I couldn’t take advantage of a maiden in that state, it’d be shameful.”

Richie’s free arm curled around the scruff of Stan’s neck, fingers brushing the curls.

“Do you wanna try again?”

Richie tilted his face, tips of their noses resting side by side, but he didn’t move forward. He waited, patiently, breathing softly.

It was Stan’s turn now.

And for the first time for what felt like his entire life, Stan didn’t hesitate.

Richie’s lips were plush and chapped and Stan couldn’t think of anything better to feel. The kiss, despite their passion, was soft. Just a brush of lips, a light drag of movement, testing the waters between them.

Richie’s hand didn’t tug or pull, but it did grip. A sturdy contact that made Stan’s knees weak. The longer they kissed, softly breathing between contact, the warmer Stan felt.

The pool of heat in his core was rising again, simmering beneath his skin as Richie’s tongue darted out for the the quickest of moments. This, this, _this_ is what he’d needed. What he’d craved. The intimacy between them no longer shrouded by pretenses of friendly favors.

The sweet, almost childish, hand holding between them melted away as their confidence grew, fingers sliding across arms and collarbones and waists and _necks_. God, all of this tension and stress just needed - needed -

“Stanley?”

Fuck. He’d spaced out, just like he always did before he cried if Richie’s look was anything to go by. Furrowed brow, laser focused stare: this was a ‘Richie preparing for a meltdown’ diagram.

Except Stan wasn’t having a meltdown.

This might be the _farthest_ thing from a meltdown.

“Richie,” God, had he been breathing this hard the whole time. “I need…”

Fuck. Don’t choke now, Stan.

“What is it? Are you okay?”

Richie started to lean back and give Stan the space he normally needed, except he didn’t _want that at all_.

Stan slid forward, going on instinct; he hung onto Richie’s neck and dragged his slowly tightening shorts against Richie’s jeans. He slipped forward until there wasn’t a breath between their bodies. He wanted Richie close to him and all around and most definitely inside him.

“Please, Richie.” He ground down against him again, making Richie choke a moan. “Just…”

Richie gripped his hips, fingers digging around the bone. “Please what? What do you need?”

“C’mon, just - ”

“If you can’t tell me, then I can’t do it, baby.”

C’mon Stan. Now or never.

“Pleasefuckme.”

Going by all of their previous encounters, Stan expected radio silence as they both worked through the offer on their own. What Stan did not expect was the moan that practically ripped out of Richie.

“Fuck, yes, baby. Are you sure? You want me to fuck you?” His mouth moved to Stan’s jaw, leaving him free to speak.

“Yes, shi - _ah_ \- t, yes,” Stan’s fingers moved to yank on Richie’s locks, which earned him a harsh nip to his jaw. Stan pulled harder.

Arms looped around Stan, gripping his thighs as he was hoisted into the air. Stan clung tighter, pulling Richie’s head back as he went for his throat, trying to mimic Richie’s motions.

They spun and Stan felt himself tip back, a mirror of the night before. Except, this time Richie wasn’t trying to release him. The second Stan’s back hit the blankets Richie’s body slid up his own, fitting them together seamlessly, attacking his neck.

He felt hands moving along his sides and slipping beneath the billowing flannel to touch heated skin. Stan squeaked as they rubbed at a nipple, scratching lightly back down his ribs, Richie’s mouth still worrying the skin near his clavicle.

God, it was so much, it was -

“Stan, are you sure?” Richie mumbled into his collar, His thumbs grazed his hip bones, brushing the edge of his shorts.

Stan tugged Richie’s hair again, dislodging him with a moan. “Christ, yes, oh my God, stop asking.”

Stan was nervous, quaking with the nerves sparking within his anticipation, but fuck if he was gonna have Richie slow down for even a second. Not when he’d waited this long.

Richie looked at him, both panting with this overflow of tension. Then he slowly grinned.

“Oh, that’s right… you can’t cum without me, can you?”

“ _Fuck_ -”

“Answer me, baby.” Richie cooed, thumb pressing into Stan’s lower lip.

“No, I can’t, fuck,” Richie’s nail pressed into Stan’s lip, just enough to bite, and Stan keened, “Please, please.”

“That’s okay,” Richie said as he leaned back into Stan, replacing the bite of his nail with the nip of his teeth. “I’m gonna take such good care of you.”

Richie took Stan’s lower lip between his teeth. He sucked gently and Jesus _Christ_ he’d barely touched him and Stan felt like he’d break apart.

“Richie, _please_ , just -”

Stan’s fingers grappled across Richie’s chest, unsure of where to settle, where to start.

He pushed up, Richie following him without missing a beat, allowing him to set the pace. They rested awkwardly:  Richie on his knees between Stan’s splayed thighs, Richie hunched to stay close to Stan. This wasn’t working - Stan didn’t want to set the pace he wanted to be _wrecked._  

“What, baby?” Richie asked, mouth still ghosting against Stan’s own. Stan could feel the exhales as he breathed. Richie’s breathing was so much more steady than his own fluttering lungs.

“C’mon, hurry,” Stan needed this now, this burning in his core demanded it. Demanded Richie against him, around him, _in_ him - completing him.

He whined. He was begging for Richie to understand all the words he couldn’t form in this new environment. Richie kissed him, as soft as when they’d begun, and Stan melted.

“Shhh, baby, it’s okay.” Richie gentled Stan flat on his back once more. “You just lay back and take it for me, alright?”

Stan whimpered, tugging Richie down against him for another kiss, toes curling against the sheets as he tried to center himself.

“God, baby,” Richie moaned, tugging his shirt over his head. “You’re so good for me.”

Stan pulled at Richie’s jeans, trying to get all of their clothing off _right now._ Jesus, why did he wear his jeans so tight? “Get these off, Tozier. _Now._ ”

Richie snickered as he yanked them down his hips. “Yes, Sir.” He winked and Stan found himself laughing along with him.

Once the offending jeans and been peeled off, Richie - now only in his boxers - knelt back down to kiss Stan’s cheek, “Cute, cute, _cute_!” he laughed as hard little kisses peppered across Stan’s face like freckles.

The tension was still there, a bubbling of need that Stan couldn’t ignore - but the ridiculous charm that was Richie Tozier melted away at least some of his worry.

Stan knew what was coming, was begging for it, but now that it was here? God, he’d barely handled a hand job.

The frantic motions of stripping Richie faded into a careful, almost soft, unbuttoning of Stan’s own shorts. Richie was precariously balanced on his knees and kept his eyes on Stan as he slipped the button free.

Stan held his breath as Richie pulled down the zipper, only sucking in air at a prompted, “Breathe, baby,” From Richie.

Stan started to unbutton the borrowed flannel as Richie tugged the shorts and briefs off at once, but his fingers shook too much to get any progress before Richie helped. The flannel parted, revealing pinked pale skin stretched across a heaving chest as Stan lay prone beneath Richie. Stan twisted, trying to figure out how to get the shirt off in this position, when he felt Richie’s hands press him back down.

“Leave it,” Richie swallowed, eyes flicking across the splayed out Stanley. “It looks - leave it.”

Stan blinked, and bit his lip as he smirked. “So edging and flannels,” He mumbled through a rising blush, “Any other kinks I should know about?”

Richie grinned. “Well I liked when you called me _Sir_ , baby.” Stan choked on a moan, eyes widening. “But we can work up to that. Next time.” Richie winked and Stan may or may not have died.

Richie leaned in for a kiss as Stan grumbled, “You say that like there’ll be a next time.”

“Oh, sweet boy, there will be _so many_ next times.” He smirked at Stan’s squeak, and kissed him once more, then commanded, “Don’t move.”

And like that, Richie was gone.

Well, not _gone_ , but Stan’s brain could hardly follow his own breathing let alone a Trashmouth who seemed three steps ahead of what Stan knew he wanted. He turned his head to see Richie rummaging through his beside table, in nothing but boxers with an intimidating tent pressing at the front.

It shouldn’t have been nearly as hot as it was.

Stan clenched the sheets regardless.

Richie came back to the bed, stumbling as he hopped onto the mattress to kneel between Stan’s legs once more. A condom and tube of lube were in his grip. Stan gulped.

Richie was close enough that Stan’s legs rested against his thighs. He felt… exposed; Richie could see everything, and he felt his cock twitch at the thought.

“Hey, Stanley, look at me.” Stan didn’t hesitate. “If you don’t wanna do this, it’s okay. I can cuddle the fuck outta you instead. Or we could stick with handjobs. Anything you want.”

Stan laughed, rolling his eyes, “I want to do this, Richie.” Richie’s mouth opened again and Stan, in a sudden burst of certainty, interrupted, “I promise. Please, Sir.”

Richie groaned, “Well, how can I deny a please that pretty?”

Richie uncapped the lube, the _click_ deafening in the small room. Stan expected a finger, maybe two, to press - to penetrate.

But none came, and he looked down to see Richie warming it between his fingers, his long fingers, god his _dick_ -

“Eyes on me, baby,” Richie said, “Up here, you’re alright.”

Stan looked back up. Richie’s pupils were blown, a faint ring of brown left among the iris. With his free hand, Richie guided Stan’s leg up, up, and over his shoulder.

One digit brushed against his entrance, not entering but rubbing around the rim. Stan felt himself loosen, felt his face flush deeper down his neck at the sensation. His calf knocked against Richie’s shoulder as he twitched.

“Breathe in.”

Stan sucked in

“Out.”

As the breath left him, Richie’s finger slipped in.

“ _Ah_ \- !”

Stan flinched, clamping down immediately on the long digit. Richie had pressed until the knuckle rested against Stan, filling him up in a steady pressure before Stan could tighten.

“Breathe, baby,” Richie shushed, kissing Stan’s quivering knee. “Just breathe.”

Stan tried, panting as he tried to figure out this new feeling, this - _fuck_ , Richie hadn’t even touched his dick yet, how was he going to handle all this?

Apparently his progress on the breathing issue wasn’t up to par, as Richie tried to slip his finger out, apologizing for pushing it. Stan’s hand shot down to his wrist, gripping it, keeping him there.

“Don’t go,” Stan choked, “I can do it, just - hang on.”

Richie immediately starting petting his thigh, and Stan felt the muscles twitch under the touch with nerves. “You’re doing so good, so good for me.”

Stan whined at that, and felt his hole loosen just enough that the burn eased.

“ _Oh_ , that’s so good, baby. I’m gonna move my finger, okay?”

Stan nodded, and Richie’s finger eased out an inch before sliding back in. The feeling wasn’t unpleasant, but it was intimidating. He was, opening up for Richie. It should’ve been invasive, but Stan had never felt more safe in his life.

A rhythm started; Stan’s dick had flagged to half mast from the initial breech but Richie was swatted away when he tried to get a hand on it.

“I-If I cum I won’t be able to take it,” Stan muttered. “It’s already so much.”

“Okay, baby, if that’s what you need.”

Richie’s finger slipped out, until only the tip remained, and Stan felt the press of a second finger trying to enter. He wanted it, he wanted it so bad - but could he take it?

“Bear down, baby. Just relax your hole.” Stan choked on a whine, it sounded so - so _dirty._

Stan bore down and the fingers squeezed in. They didn’t settle this time. Instead, they followed the lazy thrusts that Richie had done with the first digit immediately. Richie’s movements were gentle, and he kissed Stan’s leg as he praised him.

Stan didn’t feel like he’d done much to get praised for, but he melted more with every word.

The fingers started to spread, stretching him with gentle ministrations that made him gasp. His hand didn’t let go of Richie’s wrist, moving with him as he thrust into Stan.

This felt intimate. It felt like so much more than the stories he’d heard over drinks and study sessions about quick fucks and slamming bodies. Stan felt like a nerve was exposed, like Richie could tear him apart if he wanted to - and instead he opened him up like he was something to be cherished.

Then Richie’s fingers curled.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

“There we go.” Richie murmured into Stan’s knee, smiling as it quaked against him with new strength.

“Richie, wh - _ah_ -?” Stan’s eyes flicked between Richie’s own, the pressure in his gut growing, aching beneath his skin as Richie pressed harder.

“Oh, c’mon, baby,” Richie cooed, “You know what that is.”

Now that he’d found his prostate, Richie didn’t let up. Fingers stretching with more ease now that Stan was whining into the sheets below him. The flannel was open and skewed across his pink tummy as he choked out moans.

It was so much more intense this time around; Stan thought he’d acclimated at least a bit to the whole sex thing but Richie was proving him wrong with every nudge. There’d been a hand on his dick last time, new sensations he wasn’t ready for - the finger hadn’t even fully registered, just the pressure it created. This time he was _very_ aware of everything happening inside him, each motion amplified by the lack of distraction.

“God, look at you take it,” Richie mumbled, eyes locked to where his fingers sank into Stan. “You’re going to feel so good around my cock, baby.”

Stan heaved in a breath. “T-t-then do it.” He meant to sound demanding, like an order, but it came out like a plea.

“Soon, baby, so soon.” Richie reassured. “One more for me.”

“ _Richie_ \- ”

“One more.” The tone left no room for argument, and Stan moaned in response. “Good boy.”

Forget wreck, Richie was going to _destroy_ him.

The third finger was a stretch. Stan arched away from the digit before bearing down. He felt like he could cry: the sensations were so much, battling in his nerves as he sweat and panted and took it like a, “Good boy.”

 _Fuck_.

Stan couldn’t take this, “Please fuck m-me,” He begged, “Please, God, c’mon.”

Richie slowly pulled his hand away, Stan crying out at the loss. He lowered Stan’s trembling leg and reached for the condom.

“Shh, you did so good.” Richie pulled his boxers off. “Been so good for me, God, Stan.”

When Richie’s cock sprang past the elastic of his boxers Stan almost choked on his spit. Looking to Richie’s hand he finally read the XL across the condom’s reflective packaging.

Oh _fuck_.

Richie rolled the condom on quickly and rushed back into Stan’s space, laying across him as Stan’s mind reeled. Had it always been that big? He’d seen it when they, they - did _that,_ but it hadn’t seemed much bigger than Stan’s own.

It looked a fuck of a lot bigger now that it was going up his ass.

“Hey, baby.” Stan looked back to Richie. “It’s okay, I’ll go so slow and you’ll be so good for me.”

“Fuck-”

“That’s the point, yeah,” Richie drawled, laughing when Stan slapped his head. “If you ever wanna stop, we can stop. But baby,” Richie kissed him hard, “You were made to take my cock.”

Stan was almost offended with himself for how hot he found that.

The head of Richie’s cock pressed against his opening, just enough pressure to keep it steady, and Stan tried to stay calm. Twisting his eyes shut as he held his breath.

“Hey.” Richie murmured, face a breath from Stan’s own.

“W-what?”

"I'm going in."

Except he didn’t, he didn’t move an inch, and Stan forced himself to look at Richie. He was half expecting a goofy grin, a waggle of an eyebrow - something, _anything_ to break the mounting tension. But there was none of that. Stan looked and saw only Richie staring back at him with wide eyes, and belatedly Stan realized he's waiting for a response.

"Do it." Stan said. He nodded, even, feeling more sure and less scared. "Do it, Richie."

Richie pressed forward, and Stan _shook_ the moment he felt his muscles give in. Richie sunk forward, pausing to let Stan breathe and adjust. 

Stan cried out, a startled shout fading into a whine at the stretch. He bore down immediately, but could feel himself clenching, stretched out around Richie. God, he could feel his _heartbeat_ inside him.

Richie’s hands held his face, cradled him like he was something delicate as Stan’s teeth clenched and eyes fluttered.

“Baby, are you okay?” Richie asked, thumbs stroking his cheeks.

Stan nodded vigorously. He could do this, he could take this. He just -

Richie slid in another inch and Stan’s eyes rolled into his skull. Oh _God,_  Stan bit into his lip in an attempt to have some illusion of control over the whines coming out of his mouth.

Richie’s thumb pressed into his lip, dragging until Stan released it - now swollen - and Richie could see his pink tongue darting out to soothe it unconsciously. 

“Don’t bite your lip, sweet boy.” Another inch, another whine. “Let me hear all those sweet noises. God you’re taking it so well, so perfect for me.”

Stan moaned at the praise, flush deepening even still at the sound - loud and lewd. He couldn’t _not_ hear himself, and it was distracting. He needed, _fuck_ , anything - an outlet to let him focus in this overflow of sensations. He knew if he didn’t, he’d overwhelm himself.

Stan opened his mouth until Richie’s thumb sat just inside his lip, and closed around it. Sucking as Richie gentled in the last of himself until his hips were flush to Stan’s ass.

“Richie, _ah,_ p-ple _ase_ ,” Stan cried around Richie’s thumb, but Richie didn’t move. Just stared at Stan’s glassy eyes and ruddy face and sweaty hair - he must have looked a mess.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Richie whispered. “Taking it all so well, my good boy.” Richie and Stan both moaned at Stan’s responding clench.

Stan didn’t know where to go from here, what to do, how to do it. He didn’t want to make an ass out of himself in this intimate haze they’ve created around themselves.

“Do you want me to move, baby?” Oh, yeah. That’s a start.

“Please,” Stan said, trying to lift the wobbling leg not already thrown over Richie’s shoulder into the air, to give Richie more room, “ _Move_.”

Stan’s knee knocked against Richie’s ribs; leg shaking too much to stay steady. Richie groaned and took his thumb from Stan’s mouth. He shushed Stan’s responding cry, and took hold of the trembling leg - lifting it up and out, until it rested against his shoulders, a mirror image of Stan’s other leg. Stan’s knees were almost to his chest, lower back curling up off the bed to accommodate the stretch, moving Richie inside him in a way that had Stan squeaking.

Stan had never felt more exposed in his life, more vulnerable than this moment. He went to hide his face, anything to lessen the intense gaze of Richie above him, but Richie grabbed his wrists. He knelt down, so close to Stan, and pinned his wrists above him - his own arms boxing around Stan’s face.

“Don’t hide from me, Stan.” Richie said, rolling his hips just enough to hear Stan squeak again. “I wanna see everything. Everything about my perfect boy.”

Stan felt like he’d break apart if he so much as twitched. One stroke inside of him would be the end. But, feeling the cock inside him twitching, their chests melding and they both breathed, Richie’s eyes unyielding in their undeserved adoration - Stan wanted to be _wrecked_.

He lifted himself just enough against the grip on his wrists to bite into Richie’s lip, mimicking the slow suction between his teeth that the taller boy had done to him.

Still holding on, Stan mumbled, “So _move._ ”

And move Richie did. Slow thrusts - Stan was still new to this despite his craving - that left only the tip in followed by sliding back deep. Nuzzling against Stan’s flaming cheeks, kissing him between his whimpers and whines.

Stan felt like he was floating with his quaking legs and twitching fingers and pulsing hole. He felt like Richie was the only thing keeping him here, keeping him grounded through this frankly terrifying experience.

The steady in and out of Richie was so much, but fuck if Stan didn’t want more. Craved more, in a way that would unsettle him in any other context but just spurred him on underneath Richie.

His legs tightened, sweat slick skin dragging across Richie’s collarbones to squeeze against his neck. Richie thrust harder, just for a moment, and Stan shrieked.

“Sorry, baby, sorry,” Richie murmured, “It’s okay, shhh, I’m sor - ”

“ _Fuck_ me,” Stan heaved, voice high and cracking. “Faster, please - !”

Richie did not go faster, hips faltering at the outburst, leaving Stan about ready to scream. He stilled, eyes wide. “Faster? Stan, it’s your first - ”

“You’re the first dick in me, Richie. So why don’t you make it worth it?” Stan wheezed, “You _s-said_ yourself - any of the Losers would - ”

Stan couldn’t finish before he cut himself off with a wail. Richie was slamming into him now, quick jackrabbit thrusts that nailed into his prostate and left him crying.

“You want it fast, baby?” Richie cooed, a paradox to how hard he was wrecking Stan. “Want me to take you apart?”

Stan just cried, a string of, “Ah, ah, _ah!_ ” punching out of him each time Richie sank in. God, this, this was -

“ _Please,_ Ri - _ah! -_ please -”

“Oh anything for you, baby,” Richie moaned, leaning forward - lifting Stan’s legs higher - and making Stan cry out all over again. “Do you wanna cum? Be a good boy and cum for me?”

God, Stan… had forgot about cumming. He looked down and sure enough his dick stood proud and leaking. Twitching with his heartbeat and about to burst. There hadn’t been a hand on him once, Richie had -

“You’re so good for me, Stan.” Another hard thrust. “Taking it so well, can I make you cum, baby? Cum all over yourself like the sweet, messy boy you are?”

Stan’s back couldn’t stay flat to the bed, jerking and writhing with every thrust - trying to help but not knowing how. He felt Richie move his hands together, keeping his wrists locked in one iron grip.

God, this was so much. He could feel the tears of stimulation start to grow in his eyes, pooling rapidly and threatening to fall with every slam into his prostate. 

The tight coil in his spine threatened to snap him in two, he felt like he couldn’t cum - no matter how desperately he wanted to. He was wound so tight, twitching and aching on the cock that reamed him open. He could never -

“Relax, baby,” Richie mumbled into his ear over the rush of his blood, biting the lobe. “Be a good boy, and let _go_.”

Stan was cumming before the grip around his cock settled. Streams shooting out and he screamed and bowed beneath Richie. He felt Richie speed up with a groan, one, two, three brutal slams of abandon before his thrusts gentled once more - working Stan through his own orgasm.

Stan laid there sobbing as Richie stilled. His hands were brought back down to his chest and tears were kissed away from his trembling cheeks. Stan’s legs were carefully let down, resting against Richie’s hips, as he clung to the taller boy. Richie didn’t slip out, but wrapped his hands under Stan’s head and back and lifted them both upright, settling him into his lap as he shivered and cried.

Stan didn’t know why he was crying; it was like a sensory overload. All of his firing synapses trying to outweigh the other until he was left unable to process beyond so much _so much too much._

Richie didn’t comment on the tears, seemed to expect it, which Stan would’ve found insulting if he wasn’t clinging so tightly to him. The heaving of his chest and static in his ears eventually settled enough for him to hear again.

“Did so good, baby. I’m so proud of you,” Richie’s soft voice barely stopped for air as he pet through the sweat damp curls, “You did so well, looked so sweet for me, such a good boy.”

“Richie…” Stan mumbled, face flushing in embarrassment.

“Nuh uh, baby, you did so well you’re gonna hear about it.” Richie laughed, easy grin on his own pinked cheeks. “Gonna write sonnets that’ll put Ben to shame. Word poetry, complete with lesbian undertones and bongos.”

“Beep beep, Richie”

“I just beeped your butt." 

“Oh my _God._ ”

“Yeah, you kept saying - ”

Stan kissed him, a hard quick press of lips that left Richie… speechless. A darker flush rising to his cheeks at Stan’s shy smile.

“Is that all it takes to shut you up?”

“Uh.” Richie swallowed thickly. “Yeah. I’d recommend using that method from now on.”

Stan could feel his eyes drifting shut as he laughed, a high, light sound that made Richie grin ear to ear. Richie lifted him, carefully sliding out and making Stan groan, and carried him to the bathroom. Stan leaned against Richie immediately as he was wiped down, flannel peeled off his slick skin.

They ended up Stan’s bed once more, and Stan started to giggle as he curled around Richie.

“What’s funny, Stan my Man?”

“We have a sleepy bed… and a freaky bed.”

Richie gasped dramatically, “God, could you be any cuter?”

“Shut up,” Stan mumbled, already starting to fall asleep.

“Yes, Sir.” Richie whispered, kissing his crown.

\----------

When they finally bothered to get out of bed, dinner had rolled around. Stan ached in places he’d never thought could, so after his fifth stumbled limp to the elevator Richie hoisted him onto his hip.

Stan squawked, slapping Richie’s chest, but made no move to be released.

“Sorry, did the altitude change bother you?” Richie asked once they were in the elevator, eyebrows raised in joking concern.

“Oh, fuck off.” Stan shot back, tugging at the hair at the base of his neck.

Richie choked a moan, but laughed. His face settled into the vulnerability Stan had seen so much of as the light of the elevator dinged down each level.

“I can put you down,” Richie mumbled. “If you want. I don’t - I don’t wanna scare you off again.” He pressed his nose to Stan’s temple, breathing deeply.

Stan slung his arms around Richie’s neck, legs squeezing around his waist.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He promised, “You broke my ass, you get to carry it.”

Richie grinned against his skin. “Of course, dear.”

When the Losers saw them and their slightly precarious position, Bill handed Mike $20.

**Author's Note:**

> let stan cum 2k18
> 
> please leave a comment, let me know if this sucks.


End file.
